


The Velveteen Angel

by TFWBT



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 06:44:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12163587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TFWBT/pseuds/TFWBT
Summary: A Supernatural retelling of the children's story, The Velveteen Rabbit.





	The Velveteen Angel

There once was a velveteen Angel. Rather, he was a doll, sold to a naive child who proudly presented him to his older brother.

“Happy birthday, Dean!”

“What is it?” asked Dean after he opened the box with the Angel inside.

“It's an angel,” said the little boy. “Now you have your own guardian angel!”

“This isn't an angel,” said Dean with all the exasperation of an older brother. He lifted the Angel out of the box to examine him.

The Angel was proud of himself with his tan trench coat, crisp white shirt with its tiny buttons, and a tie that matched his blue button eyes. Tufts of black yarn stuck up on his head, matching his black pants and shoes. A little raggedy, to be sure, but he knew he was a handsome doll.

Dean didn’t think so. “Where are his wings? His halo? Why is he wearing a trench coat and tie?”

The younger boy shrugged, his hair falling in his face, his eyes downcast. “I dunno. I asked for an angel and the man in the shop said he was.”

“Must be a special kind of angel.” Dean smiled at his brother. “Thanks, Sammy.”

Sammy grinned with a smile that Dean loved more than the Angel.

For a long time, the Angel lived shoved in the back of Dean's duffle bag, and no one thought about him very much. He was naturally shy, as he was only made of velveteen while Dean’s preferred toys were more practical and better suited to the boys’ life. The army figures were very superior and looked down on every other toy. They liked to pretend they were real. The toy cars, which had lost most of their paint, and a few of their pieces, were of a similar mindset, and spoke highly of their models.

The Angel could not claim to be a model of anything, for he didn't know that real angels existed or even what they were. He thought angels were just a type of doll stuffed with sawdust like himself, and he understood that sawdust was quite inferior to batteries. The toy weapons touted their practical use, telling the other toys how they made the boys stronger. Amongst the other toys, the poor little Angel felt very insignificant and commonplace. The only toy who treated him with kindness was Sammy’s Puppy.

The Puppy had lived longer with the boys than any of the other toys. He was so old, his brown coat was worn bare in patches and one of his eyes had been lost many years before. He was very wise, for he had seen a long succession of toys arrive, filled with a great sense of importance only for them to get lost or broken. He knew that those toys would remain just toys, nothing else. But the Puppy also knew a secret. Some toys became Real.

"What is Real?" asked the Angel one day, when they were lying side by side in a heap on the floor of a motel room. "Does it mean having batteries?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Puppy. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but _really_ loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Angel.

"Yes," said the Puppy, for he was always truthful. "But when you are Real, you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like having batteries put in you," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Puppy. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who easily break, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. By the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out, and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

"Are you Real?" asked the Angel. And then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the Puppy might be sensitive. But the Puppy only smiled.

"No," he said. "Once you are Real, you can't become unreal again. It lasts forever."

The Angel sighed. As much as he hoped to become Real, he knew he wasn't one of Dean's favorite toys. He wasn't sure if Dean even _liked_ him. Even if Dean did come to love him the way that he loved Dean, the idea of growing shabby and losing his button blue eyes and black yarn hair was rather sad. He wished that he could become Real without those uncomfortable things happening to him.

One evening, Dean returned from a hunt with his leg torn open and his skin on fire. Dad shouted words into the phone the Angel didn’t understand like, “venom” and “dying”. Sammy dug the Angel out of the jumbled mess of the duffle bag and pressed him into Dean’s hot arms.

For days, the Angel stayed in Dean’s bed as his skin slowly cooled and Uncle Bobby and Dad fussed over Dean’s health. At first, he found it very uncomfortable, for Dean hugged him tight and sometimes he rolled over on him and squished him into the bed. The Angel supposed it wasn’t all bad, but he did miss those long hours in the duffle bag when he used to talk with the Puppy.

But very soon he grew to like spending time with Dean, because Dean sometimes told him stories about his mom, who was up in heaven. They played splendid games together with Sammy, in whispers, when Dad had fallen asleep in bed, as well as louder, wilder games while Dad was on a hunt. Sammy would jump off and on the bed while Dean wrestled with him the best he could. Sometimes the Angel would get pinned beneath their wriggling bodies or thrown too hard at a boy or a wall, but playing with Sammy made Dean happy, and the Angel loved to hear him laugh.

When Dean dropped off to sleep, the Angel would snuggle down under his little warm chin and dream, with Dean’s hands clasped round him all night long.

All too soon, Dean’s leg healed and then one day, Dad picked up the Angel and said, “Aren’t you a little old for a doll?”

“He’s not a doll, he’s an angel,” said Dean. That night the Angel was almost too happy to sleep, and so much love stirred in his little sawdust heart that it almost burst, but the next morning, he was shoved back into the duffle bag and there he stayed.

Dean grew, and as he grew, the Angel fell apart. His once-shiny blue eyes lost their luster, half the buttons on his coat fell off, and he even began to lose his shape. He scarcely looked like an angel anymore except to Dean and Sammy. To Dean he was always beautiful, and that was all the little Angel cared about. He didn't mind how he looked to other people, because one day he would be Real, and when you are Real, shabbiness doesn't matter.

Dean didn't take him out of the duffle bag until after Sammy left for Stanford, and then it was only at night when Dad wasn't around. Dean didn’t talk to the Angel anymore, but just held him tight. He didn’t need to speak for the Angel to understand. The Angel knew how much Dean missed Sammy and longed to fill his empty heart the way Dean filled his.

When Sammy returned, the Angel was shoved back in the bag and didn't spend time with Dean anymore. As much as he missed Dean, the Angel was happy because Dean had Sammy again and Dean’s happiness was all that mattered to him.

And then, one day, Dean was very ill.

His body was soaked in sweat, and he talked in his sleep, and Sammy brought Dean to Uncle Bobby’s house. He placed him on a bed and kicked Dean's duffle bag under it hard enough for the Angel to tumble out. Sammy’s voice was like Dad’s had been when he talked on the phone. Strange people came and went. Through it all, the little Angel lay there, hidden from sight under the bed, wishing that Sammy would remember him and place him in Dean’s arms once more. He knew Dean needed him. It was a long weary time, for Dean was too ill to even talk to him and no one else remembered he existed. The Angel waited patiently, and looked forward to the time when Dean would be well again.

Uncle Bobby and Sammy talked about “curse” “infection” and “purify” and other terms the little Angel didn’t understand. Then, one day, Sammy reached under the bed for the duffle bag and found the Angel next to it.

For a moment, Sammy smiled at the Angel, filling his little sawdust heart with love. Sammy smoothed down his tattered trench coat and fiddled with his hair. “I didn't think he still had you.”

The Angel couldn't wait for Sammy to press him into Dean's arms again. Or even to be squished into the bed or kicked about while they wrestled. It was strange the things he missed that he didn't think he would...

Instead, Sammy let out a heavy sigh and carried him downstairs to Uncle Bobby. “Even this?” he said, “I don’t think the artifact was anywhere near it.”

“Better burn it to be safe,” said Uncle Bobby.

Sammy carried the Angel out and placed him with the other items stacked by the bonfire. The Angel shivered, for he was used to sleeping in a motel room or Uncle Bobby's home, and by this time, his coat had worn so thin and threadbare from hugging, that it was no longer any protection to him. He thought of Dean's hugs–how happy they had been–and a great sadness came over him. He seemed to see his memories of Dean all pass before him, each more beautiful than the other. He thought of the Puppy, so wise and gentle, and all that he had told him. Of what use was it to be loved and lose one's beauty if it all ended like this? A tear, a real tear, trickled down his little shabby velvet nose and fell to the ground.

Then, the most peculiar thing happened. At the spot where the tear had fallen, a wisp of black smoke rose out of the ground. It spread and grew until it was a giant cloud of swirling darkness. Out of it stepped a beautiful woman with long brown hair and kind eyes. Her black dress flowed around her as she bent down to pick up the Angel and kissed him on his velveteen nose that was all damp from crying.

"Little Angel, Castiel," she said, "don't you know who I am?"

Castiel looked up at her, and while her face did seem familiar, he couldn't remember seeing her before.

"I am Amara," she said. "Dean gave me what I needed most, so I want to give him what he needs the most." And she kissed Castiel.  Suddenly, he was no longer cold. He quivered with excitement as he grew and grew until he was almost as tall as Dean. His clothes, once shabby and torn, were as good as new, and his blue eyes were real, not buttons.

He steadied himself on his new legs and walked eagerly back to Uncle Bobby’s house. Opening the front door, he stepped inside and went straight to Dean’s bedroom, where he found Dean sprawled out on the bed in a t-shirt and boxers.

“What the fuck?!” Dean stumbled off the bed and grabbed a shotgun. He shot Castiel, who looked down in dismay at his new coat and body, now damaged with bullet holes. To Castiel's delight, he could feel his body healing, the bullets working themselves out as his flesh closed behind them. Unfortunately, whatever magic was healing his body didn't extend to his coat. As Castiel frowned over the holes in his beautiful coat, Dean hobbled over and stabbed him with a knife, tearing the coat even more.

Castiel pulled out the knife before his coat could be ruined any further than it already was. He tilted his head as he gazed at Dean and took a step closer. “Don’t you remember me? I’m your angel.”

For a moment, Dean just stared at him, then shook his head and stumbled back to collapse on the bed. “There’s no such thing.”  

“Your love made me real,” said Castiel. He pulled off his ruined trench coat and shirt, dropping them on the floor.

“Why are you taking off your clothes?” asked Dean. He shook his head again and rubbed his eyes. “I can’t believe Sam didn’t tell me he swiped the painkillers from a pharmacy this time. Next time I’m just taking the pills with water, not half a bottle of jack.”

Castiel had no idea what Dean was talking about, but what he had planned didn’t require any talking. “I saw the magazines you shoved next to me in the duffle bag,” he said, “The bedtime videos we sometimes watched when we were by ourselves. The pizza man, remember?”

“The pizza man? What?” Dean frowned at him. “This is too much. I'm going back to sleep.” He stretched out on top of the bed and closed his eyes.

Castiel climbed on top of him, straddling his legs the way he’d seen in the videos. Dean snapped his eyes open. “You’re still here.” He pressed his hand on Castiel’s face, squishing his nose. “You feel very real for a hallucination.”

“I’m not a hallucination, Dean. I’m your angel, Castiel.” Castiel slid down Dean’s body. With one swift motion, he yanked down Dean’s boxers, then smiled up at Dean, who was staring at the ceiling.

“This is the weirdest dream I’ve ever had,” mumbled Dean, a frown creasing his brow. “What the fuck’s up with my subconscious? Why can’t I dream about a women's gymnastic team or somethin’?”

Castiel lowered his head and licked Dean’s cock.

“Holy shit!” Dean’s back arched off the bed.

Afraid he'd done something wrong, Castiel raised his head. “Was that OK?”

Dean stared down at Castiel, his eyes wide. “Wow. Yeah. I dunno what Sam gave me or why I'm seeing a fucking toy angel - and a dude at that - but that felt pretty damn real for a dream.”

Remembering a line from Dean's favorite bedtime video, Castiel brightly asked, “Do you want to fuck my mouth?”

“Oh god,” said Dean, his voice an octave higher than usual. He nodded, his green eyes wide.

Happily, Castiel lowered his head to take Dean's cock into his mouth. He knew which videos Dean liked best, and he’d seen Dean touching himself often enough to know exactly how to make him feel good. He enthusiastically sucked his cock, so glad that he could make Dean feel as loved as Dean had made him feel.

“Fuck!” said Dean, grabbing a fist full of Castiel’s hair. Castiel was so very glad that his new hair held on better than his old hair, staying on his head no matter how hard Dean pulled.

After so many years studying Dean, it didn’t take long before Dean groaned, “I'm gonna- I'm gonna-”

Castiel had seen enough of the videos to know what to say and do. He popped Dean's cock out of his mouth and said, “Come in my mouth, baby. Right in my mouth.”

Dean’s entire body trembled beneath Castiel’s hands, and his cock hardened even further as Castiel sucked him back in. Dean uttered a low moan, shooting his come down Castiel’s throat, and Castiel eagerly drank him down. He licked Dean’s softening cock one last time before he crawled up Dean’s side, to snuggle beside him. He’d desperately missed being tucked into Dean’s arms. Although he was much bigger now, he still felt right at home, their bodies slotting together like puzzle pieces.

Dean was staring at him, his eyes studying Castiel’s face with a mixture of confusion and recognition. “I never told anyone your name,” he said. “Not even Sam. I don't think I even said it to you.” Dean ran his fingertips gently along Castiel’s cheek. “Are you real?”

Castiel smiled, reached up and grabbed Dean’s hand, pressing it against his chest so Dean could feel the heart that beat within. Sawdust no longer, but flesh and blood.

“I am now.”


End file.
